


Best Man

by evocates



Category: Ouran High School Host Club
Genre: F/M, M/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-15
Updated: 2012-01-15
Packaged: 2017-10-29 14:26:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/320884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evocates/pseuds/evocates
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'‘<i>This is a romantic cliché,</i>’ Kyouya thinks.’ He is the best man at their wedding, and he is in love with the groom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Best Man

He expects this. He has been expecting this for a long time, even before he receives the wedding invitation in its pink, gaudy glory.

It doesn’t mean that it doesn’t hurt, however. Quite the contrary.

The priest is saying the vows, and Kyouya knows he should listen, but he can’t, not right now. Not when Tamaki and Haruhi are echoing the vows, not when Tamaki is standing less than a foot and a world away from him. Not when he is holding their rings.

He is the best man and he helped set the bride and the groom up. He has nudged them in this direction in every way he can, because he knows that Haruhi can make Tamaki happy.

So why does it hurt so much that he can barely breathe?

‘ _This is a romantic cliché,_ ’ Kyouya thinks, and wants to laugh hysterically. But he doesn’t; this is Tamaki’s wedding and it should be - _will_ be - perfect, and he is the last person willing to ruin it.

Tamaki is looking at him expectantly, Kyouya realizes. He gives his best encouraging smile and hands over the rings, and Tamaki beams back, his smile as bright as it was when they were in high school. Kyouya feels the pain in his chest intensify even further, even though he has no idea how that is possible.

He doesn’t remember his best man speech. He wrote months ago, and had committed it to memory so well that he doesn’t need to think to say it. He smiles again and sits through the wedding banquet and hears every single congratulatory word spoken to the bride and the groom. He sees Tamaki and Haruhi’s joined hands and bright smiles and eyes so full of love and his heart shatters into powder.

He excuses himself, pleading business. Tamaki pouts, but Kyouya has long since grown immune to it, and only apologises. Haruhi smiles, friendly and pure as ever, and Kyouya hates himself for not being able to hate her. He knows he should, but he can’t, and he has stopped trying years ago.

‘ _This is a romantic cliché,_ ’ he thinks, slipping into his limousine as it drives off. He watches the nightlights and does not smile and does not laugh, for he fears his self-control will not hold. The chauffeur does not look at him as he drops him off at the hotel, and Kyouya thinks he should be mildly grateful. He doesn’t thank the chauffeur.

Ordering room service takes the rest of his control he has, and he almost falls as he stumbles to open the door. The bellboy’s eyes widens when he sees him, but Kyouya ignores him in favour of the liquor.

He stopped ordering wine years ago, when he realised that the alcohol content is simply not enough. He orders vodka now, and he sometimes wonders when, not if, he will require absinthe. It is only the natural procession, after all.

The vodka burns down his throat, though it is lukewarm in his mouth. He does not bother to put ice in it, for that dilutes the alcohol and it is simply not logical when he wants, no, he _needs_ to get drunk. Kyouya believes in being logical.

 _He checks his watch and grabs for his phone, dialling a number that shouldn’t be so familiar to him. It is Mori-senpai’s number, and he has forgotten when the older man gave it to him. It does not matter._

 _Mori-senpai never says ‘hello’. He grunts, a soft ‘humph’, before lapsing into silence and Kyouya bites his lip so as not to break into uncontrollable laughter. There is alcohol in his veins and he is dizzy because he can’t breathe properly due to the pain in his chest. Alcohol is a remarkably bad painkiller, at least when it comes to matters like this._

 _“Mori-senpai,” he says, grabbing futilely at his self-control. “Mori-senpai, Kyouya here. I’m sorry for calling you this late.”_

 _Mori-senpai hums noncommittally, and Kyouya laughs and laughs but he doesn’t know why he is laughing. Perhaps he is laughing because he knows that if he doesn’t laugh, he’ll cry, and Ohtori Kyouya does not cry._

 _“Mori-senpai,” he repeats, hiccupping as his giggles subside. “Tamaki’s wedding is today. No, not to me. Don’t be silly. To _Haruhi_ , of course. Not to me. He doesn’t love me._

“But I love him. You probably know that, but there’s no harm in confirming that fact, eh?” he chuckles, covering his mouth as he hiccups again. He takes a swig of the vodka and relishes the burn of the alcohol down his throat. It is a good distraction against the pain in his chest.

“It’s not fair that I still love him, Mori-senpai. It’s been six _years_. I’m not supposed to fall for some _boy_. I’m supposed to fall for some well-bred girl. Father wouldn’t approve of boys for his sons, you see.

“Can you tell me; how do I stop? I want to stop. I should stop. Logic tells me to stop, but I can’t, and it just -” there are tears in his eyes now, and they’re overflowing, spilling down to his cheeks. It’s just the alcohol, the _alcohol_ , he tells himself. He shivers at the sudden cold, and he laughs, too loud and too harsh to be of real mirth, burying his face into the pillow as he does so. He shouldn’t scare Mori-senpai

“It – it hurts. It _hurts_. It’s so strange to feel - feel weak. I’m crying. I’m _crying_ , Mori-senpai. I haven’t cried in _years_ so why should I do something so stupid now? There are no benefits to me crying. None at fucking all.

“I wish I can stop loving him. It’s not right to fall in love with your _male_ best friend and not being able to fall _out_ of love. It’s just not right and it’s not fair and it’s – it’s everything bad. It’s not right to be in love with a married man, especially not when you’re their _best man_ at their _wedding_.

“I helped set them up, you know. At least, I hope I did. Tamaki is an idiot and he can’t see what’s right in front of him, so I pushed him towards her. Or maybe I didn’t and it was their efforts alone and my presence won’t have made any difference anyway. Most likely the latter,” Kyouya barks a laugh, low and harsh and his hands tremble. He grips the phone more tightly, and bunches the sheets under his hand.

“I don’t like being in love with Tamaki, Mori-senpai. I shouldn’t - but I _do_ anyway. Why? I need a clue. No wait, scratch that - I don’t _want_ a clue. Maybe this is all a figment of my imagination or just a dream. Anything is better. I am such a pathetic coward,” he laughs again, and he can distinctly hear the hysterical note it in. He doesn’t care.

“You’re not a coward,” Mori-senpai says, soft and low and calm, and Kyouya smiles at his kindness.

“I am, to myself,” he states as matter-of-factly as he can while slurring. He takes another swig from the bottle, and it feels oddly light in his hand.

It’s empty.

Kyouya snorts, placing it on the nightstand. He barely resists the urge to throw it across the room, but it won’t do for him to sully the Ohtori name just because of a tantrum. He closes his eyes and continues to talk, barely aware of exactly what he is saying. Mori-senpai doesn’t judge, and he is the best listener Kyouya knows of.

He thinks he fell asleep half-way through his ramblings, because when he opens his eyes again he sees a bright room and hears a dial tone. There are two empty vodka bottles beside his nightstand and he has a hangover, but those are trivial matters.

The phone beeps, and he winces that the high-pitched noise that drives right into his skull. He picks it up, eyes blurry with half-dried tears. His cheeks feel sticky.

‘ _We are going to our honeymoon now!_ ’ the message says, managing to convey Tamaki’s enthusiasm and joy even in type. ‘ _Don’t overwork yourself and take a break, okay?_ ’

Kyouya puts the phone down on his nightstand. He climbs back into the bed and draws the blankets over his head, cocooning himself. He doesn’t want to see the sun.

In the darkness, he laughs manically, loud and roaring even though every laugh intensifies his headache. The pain doesn’t matter. Nothing matters, not in this darkness.

He thinks he falls asleep again.

 _End_


End file.
